Schmidt Brown
by hiyakid
Summary: When the network looks into their reporters past, Murphy finds herself in need of an attorney. Enter Shirley Schmidt.


**Schmidt Brown**

_by Lauren W._

_I have to reiterate that I own none of these characters and no copyright infringement is intended. I hope you enjoy! R&R, no flames._

"Listen Fred, I want that townhouse, the one we looked at yesterday."

"Well Murphy, it is quite valuable and, more importantly, _not for sale_."

"Valuable? Not for sale? Do you know who I am?"

"Your show's only been on the air for three weeks now."

"Right. Do these people want to get rid of the townhouse or not? Because I am willing to take it off of their hands today." Murphy took a cigarette from the pack, placed it in her mouth and lit it. She tapped her fingernails in a rhythmic slant across the J, K, and L keys of her Smith Corona. "Now let's talk price."

"Murphy, I told you before and I'll tell you again, they don't want to sell it. They have kids and it was passed down to them through their family…and they just installed new flower wallpaper in the kitchen and state of the art avocado green appliances throughout."

"Another reason for me to have it." In between drags, Murphy ashed her cigarette. "Everybody has their price, Fred. Find out theirs." The conversation was over with the click of the receiver.

Nineteen-seventy-seven had been an especially good year for Murphy Brown. Her hard work as a Foreign Correspondent for the past three years had finally paid off with a seat at the anchor desk beside one of those "flooded with awards" newsmen the likes of Murrow and Huntley. Jim Dial, for some reason unknown to everyone including Murphy, took a liking to the big hair, big talk style that was Murphy Brown. He, ever so gently, took her under his wing as she didn't need much grooming, just fine tuning.

Of course now, with FYI winning its time slot two of the three weeks since its premiere, the whole crew were riding high on the success. Frank Fontana, investigative reporter, had made a major purchase after the second week – one 1966 cherry red Chevrolet Corvette. Since she hadn't quite gotten a clear read on his Fontana fellow yet, Murphy Brown was currently trying to outdo him, hoping to attain one Georgetown townhouse in pristine condition. This was her cherry red Vette. Well, that and a brand new Porsche she had heard so much about.

"Knock, knock." Murphy quickly turned in her cubical.

"Arvin." She quickly swished her hand in front of her face to try to dissipate the plume of smoke she had puffed. With her cigarette in between her lips she rose from her seat. "What can I do for ya?"

"How's your story going?"

"Good, good. I've almost have…"

She was interrupted, something she'd only let Arvin do. "Listen Murphy, there's a situation that involves you."

"A situation, you say?"

"And we need for you to take care of it. They need to see you…downstairs….immediately." Arvin never minced words. Never. Ever.

Murphy put out her cigarette instantly, adding yet another butt to her growing pile. The confusion she felt was making its way to her brow.

Arvin took a small white business card from his pants pocket and flipped it across his fingers, showed it to Murphy, then placed it in her open hand. "This is the name of the woman you need to see. She's waiting for you in Conference Room A on the 10th floor. Now go." She didn't. He blew out a huge breath and took a silver plated cigarette case from his jacket pocket. He took out one, lit it and gave it to Murphy.

This was going to be bad…very bad.

Murphy watched the floors descend, her hands crossed behind her back…16, 15…She tried to stay cool, not to worry. This really wasn't serious. Arvin exaggerates everything. Yeah, yeah. 12, 11...She began to tap her fingernails against each other. Tension was externalizing with every single click.

Floor ten was here. Murphy walked off the elevator exuding a false confidence. Then she saw him. Frank Fontana was dangling those damn Vette keys in front of something blond. Time to have some fun.

"Aww. No one wants to play with your toy."

"Why are you here?"

"Why are _you_ here?" Murphy turned to the receptionist, who at this moment was watching intently, her eyes moving left to right, left to right. "Do you want to play with his toy?"

"Well…"

"See." She returned her glare to the receptionist. "Murphy Brown. Someone's waiting for me." She then turned her Cheshire grin Frank's way again.

Shut 'em down. That was the Murphy Brown style. As the receptionist checked her schedule, Murphy went for the kill. "You're still trying to pick me up."

"No I'm not. You're not even my type."

Murphy glared at the receptionist and then returned her eyes to Frank. "Yeah, I know."

"Yes, Miss Brown. You're in Conference room A. Just follow that hallway all the way down. It's the last door on your right…no left. That's right, left. What I mean is..."

"I'll find it. And the word is Ms." Murphy walked away repeating the word, exaggerating the "s" until a "z" came out.

As soon as she got out of sight of Blondie and that Frank she ducked into a restroom. She reached inside her pants pocket and pulled out her own silver fix-all. After twisting off the cap she took a swig of Jim Beam or Old Grand-Dad, whatever was in there. She ran her tongue across her bottom lip and sighed. One last check of her reflection in the mirror and she was gone.

Conference Room A was overrun with cigar smoke stained ceiling panels and shag carpeting. It looked like the all night poker game ended five minutes ago. She had never been in this room before. When she signed her contract they used the one across the hall, B. It was nicer…much.

"You must be…" Murphy removed the card from her pocket then read it. "Shirley Schmidt. Associate." Emphasis on "Ass". Murphy then glared Shirley's way. As she did, her stomach felt a punch. She tried to hide it, covering her slight facial tick that might give away the fact that she was well aware she was looking into a mirror.

Shirley was cool. Professionalism poured. Her polyester suit wreaked of conservatism. Murphy wreaked of Marlboro Reds with a Bourbon back. "Yes, I'm Shirley Schmidt. Murphy Brown." Shirley rose with her hand extended. "Your story on the anti-apartheid movement in South Africa was outstanding. As of that story I am a fan."

_Shit. Shit. Shit._ She knew her stuff. And obviously she didn't notice or care about their resemblance. "Thanks." Murphy took a seat at the table.

Shirley removed two files from her briefcase as she explained why she was there talking to Murphy this day. "Murphy, I'm an associate with Williams and Crane out of New York. Around the same time you got this job the Network hired a Private Investigative Team to look into"…as she said the following words she quoted with her fingers…"the personal and professional past of all their reporters."

Murphy's face went to disgust as Shirley slammed down two manilla file folders. She noticed her name written on both of them. The second one had "Pt. 2" written on it in the right hand corner. Shirley opened the first folder and continued, "For legal reasons, of course you understand."

Murphy didn't and didn't care to dignify any of this with a signal that would affirm that she did. Instead she crossed her arms and let Shirley keep digging. "We got your case after the PI firm reported some unfinished business in your past."

"So what you're telling me, Ms. Schmidt, is you summoned me down here, away from my story, to fix this unfinished business?" Murphy rose from her seat and began to walk toward the door.

"Murphy, we need to talk about this!"

Murphy turned, her big curls followed. "No we don't, Shirley. We don't need to talk about this. _You_ need to fix this - whatever it is. _I_ hear a Humboldt calling my name. There it was? Did you hear it?"

"Do you know a Jacob Lowenstein?"

Murphy stopped in her tracks, removed her hand from the cold metal of the door knob and returned to her seat. That Humboldt had shut its mouth for the moment.

"Let's take a look, shall we?" Murphy rolled her eyes as Shirley flipped thru the first manilla folder. "Ah, here we go. Before I begin I need to confirm some vitals with you. You're twenty-nine years old. Is that correct?"

Murphy shook her head.

"You were born…" Shirley chuckled before she continued. "Murphy Bevin Brown in Pennsylvania, May of 48."

"I legal…"

"You dropped the middle name four years ago." Shirley looked for confirmation. "Good move. Your mother is Avery Brown, née Adair. And your father is William Brown. Only child, I see." Shirley chuckled again. "Shows."

Murphy was getting sick of this very quickly. "Forget all of this. What about Jake Lowenstein?"

"You know, it wouldn't hurt you to learn a little patience, Murphy. We'll get there." Shirley answered, smugly.

"You're having fun, aren't you?"

"Lots. Now, where did we leave off? Oh, here we go." Shirley looked at Murphy then returned to the file, making a hissing sound thru her teeth as she did. "You've been arrested…let's see here…one, two, three, four, five, six, seven times. Seven whole times. Imagine that. Mostly for public nuisance charges, disturbing the peace."

"I'm about to make it eight!" Murphy exclaimed through her teeth.

"What?"

"What?"

"Do we like picketing things?"

"We like standing up for our rights against a fascist bureaucracy. How about you Shirley? Like standing up for your rights?"

"Of course."

"Ever been arrested, Shirley?"

"We're talking about you, Murphy. Your record, which seems to go on forever." Shirley flipped her thumb across the bottom of the sheets just to make her point.

Murphy got up from her seat again and began to walk toward the door.

"You're not trying this again?" Shirley asked.

Murphy ignored her and walked across to the wood paneling of the far wall. She stopped in front of it and just looked at it.

"Come on, Murphy." Shirley continued. "Let's get this over with."

"Shhh!" Murphy slowly turned toward Shirley with her index finger resting to her mouth. She then walked up to that wall and ran her hand across it, feeling every place where one panel ended and another started. About half way across she stopped, fisted her right hand and whacked the paneling over and over again.

Shirley got up from her seat and ran over to Murphy, catching her arm on the back swing. Murphy turned and Shirley dropped her grasp. Murphy returned to beating the wall with her fist every five inches.

"Stop it!" Shirley finally commanded, getting Murphy's attention. "What are you doing?"

"This is a joke, right? All of this. Arvin told you to do this. Okay, Arvin, I get it. Where's damn the camera?"

"Murphy, there's no camera and this isn't a joke. This is for real."

"For real, you say?" Jim asked Arvin. "So you are trying to tell me we should have gone with Ellerbee?"

"She's a troublemaker. Do you know how many times she's been arrested?" Arvin asked in his hushed tone.

"I know about that one time with Abby Hoffman on the floor of the stock exchange. How many times are we talking about, really?" Jim inquired.

"Seven." Arvin answered. "How many times have you been arrested, Jim?"

"Well, none."

"And that's the answer the boys upstairs likes to hear, Jim." He paused. "They want me to get rid of her."

"You can't, Arvin. You just can't. I'll quit."

"You believe in her that much?" Arvin asked.

"Of course. Maybe not right now, but soon I will, I just know it. I've got the feeling about her."

"Or maybe that's just Phil's special coming back to haunt you?" Arvin asked.

"Maybe. I don't know. Just give her a chance." Jim answered. "She'll fix it, whatever it is."

"Oh it's a biggie, Jim."

"Biggie? Like what, Arvin? Did she have a child out of wedlock?"

"Almost just as bad."

"Almost just as bad as what, Jim?" Frank joined in while making his daily babe rounds. That's what he called the time when he would walk around the office looking for fresh babes.

"Ah, nothing Frank. Nothing at all."

"I wanted to talk to you about Murphy. I don't think she likes me very much. Has she said anything to you about me?" Franked asked Jim, with some concern.

"Fontana," Arvin declared with that voice. "Don't you have an interview or something else you should be doing?"

"Sorry Arvin. I just want her to like me."

"Maybe she will one day. Maybe the two of you will be the best of friends."

The three men exchanged laughs and then went on their way.

"This is no laughing matter, Murphy." Shirley said. "The network needs to take care of this between you and Mr. Lowenstein. The network is not only looking out for you but for its own tookus."

"Right, right. I've got it now. Its own tookus." Murphy's face shifted to sarcasm, her arms crossing her chest.

"You don't even know what I'm going to say and you're already blaming the network." Shirley walked over to where Murphy was sitting and sat down next to her. "Why don't you just let me explain?"

"I think I know what you are going to say already?"

"You're a mind reader?" Shirley asked.

"No, I just know Jake." And like a child after a temper tantrum, Murphy settled. "You see, we were entirely too young to get married. We met at the Democratic Convention in '68. We were crazy for each other from minute one. We'd be alright, then it would start, the constant nagging. He could never let it go that I don't know how to cook. I mean you try making a home with someone when you can't please them. And I tried. I never tried harder at anything in my life. And that was another thing, he has this vagabond mentality. He has to constantly keep moving or he gets bored. He would leave me alone for days on end and then come back like nothing happened, because in his book, nothing did happen."

"And this marriage lasted five days?" Shirley sarcastically asked at the ridiculousness of it all.

Murphy shook her head in the affirmative. "He didn't like TV dinners. The man had to have gourmet every night. And I mean every night. It was insane."

"Now when you say gourmet, you are talking about food, right?"

"Yes...and no, but mostly yes." Murphy's hand flatly waved back and forth, just to make her point.

"Just stick with the yes parts, okay?"

Jim and Arvin had moved their conversation to a more formal setting...Phil's Bar and Grill. "Hey there Jim and Arvin. What can I get ya today?"

"Can you give us a moment, Phil?" Arvin asked.

"Sure. Meatloaf's on special."

"Thanks, Phil."

"Listen Jim, the boys upstairs are serious about canning her. She's entirely too much upkeep for them." Arvin, took a cigarette from Jim's pack and lit it.

"What did she do that's so bad?" Jim inquired, now intrigued.

"Now Jim, you of all people should know that I can't divulge that information to you."

"Must be pretty bad to get them this upset." Jim said as he lit one from his own pack, blowing the smoke above his head in a quick exhale. "What can I do? Really, Arvin. What can I do?"

"Sorry, big guy, you're just going to have to wait this one out."

Jim stood pounding his fist onto one of Phil's little round tables. "No! I can't let her take the fall for this all on her own. I'll quit."

Arvin grabbed Jim's arm and yanked him back down to his seat. "Hey dummy, there's the President of the News Division. Want to say that a little louder!"

"Arvin, I'm serious. I'll quit."

"Have you got a thing for her?"

"I'm a married man." Jim said.

"So am I, Jim. But I still have eyes and she has great gams. Have you ever noticed that?"

"Yeah." Jim dazed off.

"So that's the whole story, Shirley. And now he wants my money, am I right?"

"That's not it, Murphy. You see, well you aren't technically divorced from Mr. Lowenstein."

"What?" Murphy's head whipped up to finally look at Shirley.

"It's true, he never signed the divorce decree." Shirley stated, matter-of-factly.

"So we are technically still married?" Murphy asked that in that school girl in love kind of way.

"This is why we do this for all of the reporters at the network. We are looking out not only for the Network but for you too."

"If he's still my husband then I'm going to kill him!" Murphy exclaimed.

"I can't listen to this, Murphy."

"How are you going to fix this, Shirley?"

"Well, first, I'm going to have to ask you the question. This is one you are probably not going to want to hear or answer." Shirley paused.

"Yes, I have noticed that we look exactly alike. See, that wasn't so bad." Murphy retorted in her usual smart ass way.

"Good try. But do you actually want to get divorced or do you want to still be married to Mr. Lowenstein?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold it," Murphy exclaimed, with her hand in the air. "I haven't been married to Jake for almost a decade now. I signed the papers. Remember?"

"But how hard was it for you to sign those papers in the first place, Murphy?"

"Whose side are you on anyway?" Murphy asked.

"On a personal level, I can relate. I mean, I have been having an affair for years with the owner of the law firm I work for. He is much older than me. But sometimes it feels nice to have someone there when you get home. You know?"

"I read you all wrong, Schmidt." Murphy smiled. "You are nothing but an old softy talking about needing someone when you get home. Well, I am not like you, Shirley. I don't need Jake at all. I've been alone for years and it's been okay."

"Then you'll have to tell me one day how you do it, Brown."

"It's the '70's, sister. We are not our mother's little girls anymore. We are independent women who can take care of ourselves and make our own money. And the one time you forget to double check with your lawyer about getting your ex-husband's signature on your divorce papers leaves you open to losing it all." Murphy put her head in her hands.

"That's what I'm here for." Shirley put out her hand. "We are going to fix this for you. Not to worry."

Murphy shook Shirley's hand. "Deal."

"So, here's what we're going to do." Shirley said as Murphy reached for one of her Marlboro Reds. She packed it and placed it in between her lips, then retrieved her Zippo from her vest pocket, she flipped her Zippo open, lit the flame with the cleanest of precision, then closed the flame in one full swoop. "We're going to call him."

"We? Really? I have a feeling this _we_ only includes me." Murphy stated while offering Shirley a smoke, which she refused under the guise of not wanting to prematurely age her thirty-one-year-old skin.

"I have a feeling that you could get that man to do anything for you. Am I wrong?" Shirley asked.

Murphy then retrieved her silver flask from her pants pocket and took a sip from its still cool mouth piece. She turned to look at Shirley while licking her bottom lip. "We have extremely intense chemistry. And one thing's for sure, that man drives me crazy! He always has."

"Well, I'm sure with the barrier of the phone, you'll have no problem." Shirley reassured.

Murphy exhaled heavily and said, "Okay, let's give it a shot." Her face not matching her voice.

"And just remember," Shirley picked up the red office phone and began ringing Jake's number. "I'll be right here next to you. It's ringing." Shirley handed the phone to Murphy.

And ring it did, Murphy was about to hang up, calling it a lost cause for the good when she heard a "Hello?"

A cold shiver ran right up her spine when she heard _his_ voice and all of a sudden her mouth was no longer connected to her brain. She tried as hard as she could to make something, anything, come out, but nothing did.

"Hello?" He asked again. "I can hear you breathing, shy person. Why don't you want to talk to me? Okay, then."

"Jake?" Finally a word, which to her sounded like a child, kind of high pitched and not at all what Gloria Steinem would approve of.

"Yes?" He answered, with confusion dripping from his lips.

"It's Murphy." Her voice was returning to its normal timbre. She dragged on her still lit cigarette again, blowing the plume of smoke just above Shirley's head.

"Murphy?" He answered in a way to kid and not to acknowledge.

"Yes, it's me, Jake. Your ex-wife. I need to talk to you."

"Well, if I remember correctly, we were never ones for talking." He chuckled and this instantly lit the fuse. She could practically hear his eyes crinkling through the phone.

Out of the corner of her eye, Murphy saw Shirley scribble something on her legal pad.

"God, Jake! Are you going to start a fight already? I haven't even seen you in ten years." Murphy's voice became brash and stern because she could feel it building up within her.

"I just knew you would be calling me. You can't let a decade go by without Mr. Happy in your life." Jake said.

Shirley showed her what she wrote and it read, _Don't let him get the best of you! Get to his signature._

"For your information, that's not why I'm calling at all, Jake!" Murphy could feel the tension between them, even through the phone. It was electric and she couldn't help herself.

"Well I knew you didn't want to talk about the last episode of _The Mary Tyler Moore Show_." Jake quipped.

"You've got that right." She answered, before he interrupted her next statement, thus infuriating her more.

"Listen, honey, whatever your reason for calling, I'm fine with it."

"So I'll just get on with it then." Murphy took another drag off her cigarette, this time letting the smoke float through her nostrils, like a dragon. "First of all, and I believe I have mentioned this to you before, my name is _not _honey or babe, it is Murphy, spelled just like it sounds. Secondly, it has come to my attention that you have neglected to sign our divorce papers."

"I lost them! So sue me!"

"I did sue you, Jake! That's why we're divorced! I don't want to be married to you anymore!" Shirley put her hand on Murphy's shoulder in a way to let her know that she was doing the right thing.

"So you don't want to be married to me? That's fine. Because I don't want to be married to you either!" Jake rapid fired back.

"Duly noted, Jake! I'll be resending you the papers, this time by certified mail. I expect them to be signed and back in my hands in two weeks! Got that?" Her breathing heavy and rapid.

"Fine!"

"Fine!"

"So I guess we'll see each other in another ten years." Murphy stated, sarcasm dripping from everywhere. "Have a nice life, Jake!"

And with that Murphy and Shirley both smirked.

_THE END_


End file.
